Left-Handed Exploits
by fantasmala
Summary: In the wake of a dead world ravaged by the infection, the sociopath-turned-charger Brunswick thought he had it made. However, all that changed when he found her... Short narrative fic made in response to the serious lack of charger and spitter fics around. T for dark humor and suggestive themes. Not a pairing; that would be just plain disgusting. Critiques welcome :D
1. 1--This is not a Memoir

**#1- This is Not a Memoir**

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Call me Ishmael.

That's what you were expecting, weren't you? Some prose-obsessed memoir laced with symbolism, romance, and philosophical bullshit? Well fuck, you came to the wrong place.

I may be screwed and all, but hell, I'm no artsy hipster. Regardless of what's happened, my standards haven't dropped that far.

I'm just a normal—well, _formerly_ normal—no… Ah, fuck it. No one's normal anymore. Not that they were before...

Anyway, back to my original point. I just want to be clear. This is not a memoir; I don't do that shit. Oh, and this sure as hell isn't an autobiography. I'm not that self-obsessed—

Shit, do you have any idea how hard it is to hold a pen now? I'm not used to writing like this. I was left-handed before all this, you know. I've heard that's supposed to make me more creative and analytical, but that's probably just bullshit. Hell, even if it was true, I wouldn't care. As long as I could hold my PS3 controller and do my man-stuff (Guys, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.), I was fine. Shit… Doesn't matter now anyway, right?

Speaking of which, while I'm on the subject, do you have any idea what it's like to be deprived of the use of one of your hands?

Oh right, you don't. And even if you did, believe me. You've never felt it like I do.

Yeah, you might have broken an arm when you were six at a little league tournament and had your mom kiss the crap out of it as you cried your ass off like the wuss you were. You might have broken it in high school doing something incredibly stupid on the off chance of impressing that cute girl in your French class (Right, chicks really dig dudes who possess the intelligence to willingly maim themselves. Great going, stud.). Hell, you might have even have been born without an arm—Okay, maybe that would be worse for you, but it'd funny as hell for the rest of us.

Oh yeah, did I mention I'm insensitive?

Kind of like my left arm. Okay, maybe insensitive isn't the right word. Yeah, considering I could stab a pen into it right now and not feel a thing, insensitive would probably be an understatement. I mean, geez, I'm looking at it right now, hanging down by my side in all its calloused glory… lazy piece of shit… might as well be a tree trunk. Oh well, at least it has its uses...

Oh, you have no idea what I'm talking about...

Man, you don't get out, do you? Oh well, might as well start from the beginning. Not like I've got anything better to do, right? Let's see… where to start? I guess it all began with the outbreak, but you probably already knew about that. Hell, you probably know more about that apocalyptic garbage than I do. You know, about how a deadly disease swept across the world, contorting its victims into mindless monsters? Just for the record, I'm not mindless, but judging by the fact that I can still put coherent thoughts down on paper, I'm guessing you already knew that. If you didn't, well… you're just dumb as fuck. To be frank, that phase really just passed me by. I worked from home as an online stock analyst, so I really didn't take notice until the power in my apartment went out. God, that sucked.

I guess I saw other signs before then. You know, crazy online news ads, e-mails from the Department of Health and this sketched-out organization called CEDA, but I just passed that crap off as spam. Who wouldn't? Sure the stocks were dropping as the supply of overseas goods plummeted due to some African virus, but when does Africa not have a killer disease spreading across the world? Yeah, that's what I thought. Shut up and listen.

Oh, and I heard things. Muffled screams echoing through the halls, gunshots on the streets, all that jazz, but I just chalked it up to neighborhood violence. After all, my neighborhood wasn't a safe place even before all this crap happened.

Then I started to feel sick. Very sick. So what did I do? Well what does any self-respecting man do when he gets sick? Overdose on Nyquil and slog through it, of course! Shit, that probably wasn't the best idea in hindsight, but how was I supposed to know it wasn't just an ordinary flu? You can't really plan for stuff like that anyway.

Anyway, I guess that's where it all began, but that's not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about what happened afterward. After I woke up. After I learned the world had gone to hell. After I lost the use of my left hand. After I met that hopeless wreck Analise…

Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I realize how little the beginning has to do with any of this. Hell, in a world like this, you can't afford to look back. So…

I guess this is where I start… Shit, how do you start something like this? I guess an introduction would help.

Name's Brunswick, and no, I'm not pleased to meet you and I probably never will, so don't get your hopes up.

I guess this is my story. I don't care if you don't like it; after all, it's my story. Well that's that; I guess I'd better start. I've bullshitted you long enough.

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Hello! Just a short and sweet fic to sharpen my narrative skills. Thanks for reading :D

**fantasmala**

**v2- typos fixed**


	2. 2-- Let's be clear: I HATE YOU

**#2—Let's be clear: I HATE you.**

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Ok. By now, I'm guessing you've already figured out I'm infected. If not, you're dumb as fuck.

Furthermore, if you've come this far, you've probably got a shitload of questions flitting about your brain about what the heck you've just read. Am I an actual infected individual, or just some douche of a survivor who's currently tooling the shit out of you? If my account is truthful, then what was it like to metamorphose into a quasi-human beast? How the hell did I manage to let the disease catch me off guard? Is my sanity genuine? And if I am indeed who I claim to be, have I encountered others like me?

Fuck. This'll take a while, and this flaccid wreck of a right arm is not making things any better. God I wish I could still write with my left hand.

Firstly, regarding the truthfulness of my story, that's up to you to decide. If you've survived this long, chances are you've at least learned to make decisions for yourself. Nowadays, the world isn't very forgiving of indecision, so you've just got to decide and live with it. This is one of those situations. I have no proof, no validation, to back my claims. If you're reading this, I'm probably dead. Hell, you might've even been the one who killed me. Fuck… that's depressing. So go ahead. Dismiss this as just some fucked up BS. It's probably better that way…

Anyway, on to the subject of how I managed to let the vast majority of the world to screw itself beyond all limits of conventional screwing without compiling two shits' worth of suspicion. Shit, I really missed that. Well, I guess it all began with Google.

Yes, you heard right, _Google_. As I said earlier, I work from home as an online stock analyst. I was good, one of the best, in fact. Remember the emergence of Google back in 2002, when its stock value more than doubled before splitting several times? Guess who's got two thumbs and suggested investment? Yeah, that's right...

This guy.

Oh, and did I mention I was only a high school intern? Yeah, think about that, what did you do in high school? Land a firm a cumulative 20 million dollar profit, an over 1245% return on investment? I think not. Don't believe me? Well fuck, haters gonna hate…

Needless to say, I was hired on the spot with a generous salary. Okay, maybe not so generous. In fact, considering the fact that my recommendation was the sole impetus for Savannah Investments' ascension to Fortune 500, you could damn well say I was cheated. Hell, I didn't even get a percentage of the earnings. Not that I cared; I finally had the means to move out of my drugged-up excuse-for-a-mother's house. Haven't heard from her since, and I honestly couldn't care less...

Anyway, there I was, seventeen and home free. I moved into the first apartment I could find, a shitty two-room on the outskirts of the city—a five-minute's walk from the Liberty Mall. I also dropped out of school; no need to waste my time with those phonies. Yeah, and the rest is history. Save for the bi-monthly supply trips to the mall for food and cleaning supplies, I could pretty much stay at home all day. In retrospect, that habit probably saved my life. Yeah yeah, I know… I'm antisocial, but here's the thing:

_I hate people. _

Simple as that. People irritate me. I can't stand it. They're all the same: cocky, superficial, and manipulative. Oh, and most of them are dumb as fuck. Just look at your own life and you know what I mean. Christ, I hate it. Hell, were it not for the fact that I now fear for my life, I wouldn't even be writing this. That's right. I hate you, and if I didn't need to write something down as proof of my existence, I wouldn't even be addressing you. God damn, I don't even like writing.

What? You don't agree with me? Well stop lying to yourself. Deep down you know we only associate with others to fulfill our needs, be it for sustenance or that pathetic shit show you call companionship. Hell, if we didn't need each other, what'd be the point of association? That's why so many got hurt in this world: because they're of no use to those more powerful than them. Hell, they're worse than useless: they're obstacles, obstacles to be removed. So screw you. Screw you and your manipulative façade. Screw your dinky companionship; I have a story to tell.

Anyway, back to the infection… Where'd I leave off? Ah right, my infection…

Well, regarding the experience of transforming into… whatever I am now, I honestly have no fucking idea. All I remember is going to bed one night feeling like shit, chugging down a bottle of Nyquil to knock me out, and waking up feeling like shit. Oh man, you have no idea how terrible I felt. Everything felt off.

_Everything._

God, my stomach felt like somebody had taken a huge crap in it, and my left side felt numb and heavy. I have no idea how long I lay there; I honestly thought I'd just die. Yeah, I guess you could say I was a little scared, but I sure as hell wouldn't make a wussy fuss about it. So I lay back and waited, just staring up at the ceiling with blurred vision, awaiting that somber hour with little more than a disgruntled indifference. I had made my mind up about the world long ago, and there was no way in hell I'd go against my reasoning in my final hours.

I'm no phony.

Anyway, after a few hours of waiting, I began to grow bored. Figuring death would come in its own time, I rolled out of bed... and saw my body for the first time. Needless to say, I was more than shocked. I really hate talking about that ensuing hour of horrified discovery. However, what I refuse to give you regarding the experience, I can give in facts about my appearance.

I'm taller now, barely short enough to pass under the threshold to my room without fear of bumping my head, probably owing to the slight hunch I developed, courtesy of my freakishly bulky torso, as well as from the weight of my left arm.

Oh yeah, did I mention that my left arm is massive?

Hulking, calloused, and elephantine, the thing must weigh at least 150 pounds. From my left shoulder down, everything is covered in a thick grey hide that shields a pulsing reserve of muscle beneath. My left hand is all but gone, swallowed up by the grey mass that is my left arm, with my fingers little more than inflexible stumps that protrude from the tip of this strange new appendage. My left leg has been affected in a similar way, though not to the same degree as my left arm.

In contrast to my thickened left side, my right arm has atrophied to little more than a bony outcropping tipped with a flimsy hand that barely possesses the strength to lift anything. Hell, yesterday, I struggled with opening a can of soda, and don't get me started on bottles; I can't even unscrew twist caps anymore.

Otherwise, everything else seems pretty normal. My skin is slightly paler than it was before, and though my face feels normal, I'm now bald. In fact, I now completely lack body hair. Shit, that must have done WONDERS for my complexion. Oh well, I never really cared about my appearance. I guess I'm lucky I was born that way. I can't even imagine how some chick would react to a transformation like mine. Hell, maybe that's why those pale, anorexic clawed ones cry so much. How pathetic, I actually hope that's the case; serves them right for being so vain when they were normal…

Not that I can tell, though. As far as I know, I'm the only one who isn't mindless in this city, save for those trigger-happy, uninfected bastards who pass through from time to time. I mean, I don't wander around aimlessly, making pathetic moaning noises that would put a forty year-old stripper to shame. I also don't feed on the rotting corpses that litter the streets; you couldn't pay me to do that.

So I guess if there are any others like me, I haven't seen them yet. Hell, if there were others like me, chances are they'd do what I'm doing; hiding out in apartments, only leaving to scavenge for food in abandoned shops and convenience stores. Hell, given how pathetically stupid most people are, I'm guessing a huge chunk of them would have been gunned down by survivors or committed suicide within the week. Pathetic fucks…

This is all speculation, of course, but then again, I'm great at speculation. After all, that was all I did for my job before all this shit happened. Besides, aside from my untainted mindset, I'm practically indistinguishable from others of my type. Granted, I don't run around, battering the shit out my surroundings while roaring like an idiot, so I'm not dirty or bloodied up. Still, the infection must have done something with my vocal chords, because it's virtually impossible to vocalize even simple words. I wonder if the same can be said for the other types of infected individuals I've seen whenever I leave to scavenge for more food.

Doesn't matter anyway. At least they don't bother me. Heck, aside from the smell of rotting flesh that hangs in the air, the lack of internet, and the hazard of running into a band of armed uninfected, this new world is actually quite an improvement. Hell, it might have been the beginning of a pleasant new existence for me… or so I thought.

That was before I met her. Before I heard the crying… Hell, I guess that's when everything changed…

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Wow, Brunswick really hates you, doesn't he? Oh well, maybe that bitter sociopath just needs another brush with humanity... Anyway, thanks for reading. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. Please critique! :D

Many thanks,

**Fantasmala**

**v2- typos fixed; spacing readjustments**


	3. 3--Out of Jack

quick disclaimer: I own neither Left 4 Dead nor Jack Daniels... shame.

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**#3—Out of Jack…**

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The sound of crying…

Fuck. Don't you hate it?

Well I do.

I can't stand that shit. The sound of weakness, that's all it is. Nothing more… nothing less. I remember a social worker, a ratty old man by the name of Spencer, once told me that tears are the only confirmation of your humanity.

Well I beg to differ.

Fuck tears. Never helped anyone anyway, right? I've seen tears in department stores, spoiling the fuck out of young children , whining like pigs as they claw at their parents clothes, desperate for candy or toys. I've seen them in bland, locker-lined hallways as the sobbing forms of girls dart past me towards the lady's room, dark lines of salty mascara bleeding between the fingers covering their screwed-up faces. I've even seen them at home: tears of longing streaming down my mother's numbing cheeks as she clutched the bottle tightly in her tremulous grasp, only to have them turn to tears of terrified regret when that monster returned home…

Hell, if I think back hard enough, I can remember the feel of tears on my own face as that same monster grew bored with her and turned on me. I remember the sharp feel of his fist wedging itself deep into my gut, ushering yet another wave of pain to crash down upon me. I remember how my screams only served to increase the ferocity of his blows as his slurred laughs pricked my ears. I remember hating that fiend with every particle in my being. I remember him having the nerve to leave the next morning as if nothing had happened. I remember that beast having the audacity to call me his son…

Tears didn't help. Learning to hit back did.

No, crying never helped anyone. It didn't help me then, and it sure as hell won't help me now. That's why I can't stand it, now more than ever as I lie bed, staring up into the darkness. The sounds of the city come alive every night. It's mostly just echoed moans, laced with the occasional cough, snarl, or gurgle emitted by a rotting passerby. Sometimes the apartment shakes as a particularly large individual with arms far larger than even my own mutated member thunders past, roars of unchecked and utterly mindless rage fading along with it into the distance.

Never bothered me once.

Hell, after a couple weeks, you could damn well say it was comforting, kind of like the soothing hum a refrigerator makes. Unfortunately, not all sounds hold such appeal. Sometimes, one of them—you know, the pale ones with the really long claws—decides to settle down nearby for the night. I hate it when that happens; I can't sleep through those wails. Damn, if those things were as weak as they looked, I'd be down in an instant to lay out any stupid enough to get close, but I know damn well what they're capable of.

It was on one of those nights that it happened. So in a sense, they're the reason why I'm stuck with her. I remember it very clearly. The cries began just after sundown, the muffled wails marking the beginning of yet another shitty night. Groaning, I rolled out of bed, the extra weight of my left side catching me off guard as I crashed into the floorboards. Christ, this body's lack of symmetry is a pain; I can't even walk in a straight line without having to catch myself with my larger arm for fear of pitching over. Meandering about in the dark, I made my way for the kitchen, reluctantly thankful for my altered eyesight.

Upon my arrival, I slowly inched through the archway sideways, careful not to bump the stove with my left arm. Making a mess this late at night was the last thing I needed. The sobs outside intensified, increasing my irritation. Groaning, I lifted my right warm weakly upward, feeling about for the familiar pick-me-up… Empty.

Shit… I was out of Jack.

Damn, how could I have been so careless? I should've checked before sundown. Grumbling, I slouched out of the room to begin the journey to the outdoors. I briefly considered the option of trying to tough it out for the night, but such ideas were shattered as another of the bitch's cries split the silence. Gritting my large, uneven teeth at the sound, I shoved open the door and stepped out into the cool night air. There was no way in hell I was sleeping through that.

The familiar, black stretch of street yawned out to meet me. Slowly, I shuffled along amidst the sea of abandoned cars that sprawled across the asphalt, careful not to step on any of the rotting bodies that littered the ground: they make a heck of stain. All around me, I could make out the limp forms of the city's mutated denizens. To my left, trio of emaciated figures slouch dejectedly against the ruined frame of a dilapidated building while a pair of hooded freaks fight over a freshly killed cat, its shiny innards spilled out across the sidewalk. How quaint. Were this three weeks ago, that just might have been enough for me to puke, but not anymore. Everywhere, moans and snarls echo across the ruined city. Even in death, Savannah is full of life. It's nothing new to me, so I pay the sights and sounds little heed. I came out here to get some Jack (or whatever I manage to find; if it's strong enough, I could care less), and I wasn't leaving until I got some.

—_**Maurice's Superette—**_

_-Food and Spirits Since 1978-_

The broken sign caught my eye, hanging lopsidedly from its perch atop the ruined threshold of the abandoned convenience store. The door, yawned wide open, half its hinges torn from the crudely painted wood. I could feel a stiff smile stretch across my hairless features.

Jackpot.

I honestly can't believe I didn't search here earlier. Before the plague hit, I used to frequent this place every two weeks for groceries, as the prices were far more competitive than any piece of shit sold at the mall. The place was run by fat man Maurice and his wife. I think they had a daughter, but I can't really be sure. Doesn't matter, anyway. They're probably all dead anyway. Shame, I never really minded those two. They weren't bad, never asked any questions or gave me dirty stares. I almost liked them. Almost…

Slowly, I entered the ruined convenience store, stepping over a corpse sprawled across the entry way. I advanced forward, past the dim outlines of lopsided shelves and broken displays, my eyes set upon the glimmer of glass at the back. With any luck, some bottles just might have been left intact. Closer inspection confirmed my hunch as my weak fingers ran across the smooth surface of a bottle of Jack Daniels 40 proof whiskey.

Perfect.

Growling contentedly, I fished my weak hand through my torn jean shorts for my knife, eager for that first sip. I could care less if I passed out here, not like anybody would do anything about it anyway. Besides, there'd be no way for me to save this little fucker until I got home. I was waaaaayyy too parched for such nonsense. Then I heard it, sounds that far outstripped the cries of the pales ones, staccato notes sufficient to make my blood cold with fear.

Gunfire.

Survivors were nearby, advancing down the street, ready to shoot at whatever moved. Grunting in anger, slouched about the store, searching for exit. Perhaps I could—

CHAPCHAPCHAP!

Scratch that, there was no way was I leaving the store. It was way too dangerous out there. Outside the cracked windows the dim flicker of gunshots grew brighter. Roused from their languor, the dark forms of the infected sprinted past in a frenzied range. Stupid fucks… Oh well, better them than me. Caring little for the horde being mowed down outside, my eyes returned to searching for a place to hide. Surely this store had to have had a stockroom someplace. A creamy door to my right was all I needed to see, and I shuffled towards it, my right hand out stretched to turn the brass handle.

It wouldn't budge.

Groaning, I tried again. Nothing. Shit, locked as usual. Slowly, my eyes traveled about for something to help get through. Anything strong enough to bludgeon past this barrica—

Wait. I looked down at my right arm, a sigh of relief exiting my rough throat. Silly me…

The door caved easily. All it took was a running start and hard punch, and I was in. DAMN, that punch felt good. Chuckling to myself in my gravelly voice, I shove the door behind me closed. Now, all I had to do was wait until the danger had past. With any luck, those goons might've cleared out the pale one by my house. That'd be fucking great…

Then I heard it, a frightened squeak off to my right, followed by the light patter of feet off to the side. Curious, I turned in the direction of the sound, lurching forward with a bored fascination. My thick foot brushed up against the side of a heavy bucket, knocking it over and spilling its contents across the floor. A sickly hissing sound filled the air, while an eerie glow spread across the abandoned stock room. What the fuck… ?

A soft whimper on the other side of the room piqued my curiosity further. Quickly, I turned towards its source in time to see a flicker of movement from behind the nearest shelf. I limped forwards as realization dawned upon me. A cry of fear emanated from behind the shelf as I drew closer, turning a steady weeping as I set my thickset arm on the shelf before turning the corner… and saw her for the first time.

There huddled against the wall, sat a girl in her early twenties, her shocking green eyes grew wide from behind the round lenses of her glasses. Her cries grew louder, not unlike that of the pale ones, but less nasally and a little wet. Her breathing quickened as I took yet another step forward, perplexed as to how such a helpless woman had lasted this long in a place like this.

Weeping, she cowered as I drew near; drawing her long, thin legs in closer to her body. From what could see of her, she didn't look so bad. Granted, the lower half of her face and along with her neck was obscured by a silky green scarf. Her soft, dusty-brown hair ran past her shoulders, spilling down across her back. While in her hands, she clutched a wide slab of cardboard upon which a message was crudely written in red marker:

"_**DON'T SHOOT! I'M NOT DANGEROUS!"**_

Dangerous? How could she be… then it hit me. Her hands looked wrong. Her nails were pointed, and her fingers seemed oddly stretched, though nowhere near to the same degree as the pale ones. The scarf covering the lower half of her face and neck… the proportions looked all wrong. Damn, this girl was not human. Now, it was my turn for my eyes to widen. I'd seen this form of infection before. She was—

No.

I don't care. It's not my problem. I've lived my life alone thus far, and I'll continue to do so. Slowly, I turn away from her, searching the shelves for something to drink. Yeah, I know I scared her; she probably doesn't even know I'm also harmless. Not like I could tell her even if I wanted to though. You already know I can't talk. Oh well, she'll figure it out soon enough. Life's a bitch, and she's got to deal with it just like I do. I'm not about to wet-nurse anybody. Slowly I pry a dusty bottle of Bud with my knife before sitting down to guzzle the tingling draught.

Much better…

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A/N: Sorry for the long wait, but I hope it was worth it. Thanks to anybody who reviewed, faved, or simply took the time to read. You have no idea how good it feels to see feedback on a story. You readers possess an incredible power to lift the spirits of writers and compel them to fly to new heights, so please use that power to the fullest. Please review any story you read, as it ensures the proliferation of improved stories on the site. Alas, let me preach to you no more :D

Many thanks,

fantasmala


	4. 4-- Bud Want's Out

**Disclaimer**; Jack Daniels, Budweiser, and Left 4 Dead, I own not. Remember this, you will.

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**#4—Bud Wants Out**

**...**

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_Just one step at a time… one… two… pitch larger arm forward for support… repeat…_

Oh... FUCK… what happened last night?

_One…two…ooooohhhh…my head…_

Can't even remember how many I had. Slowly, I take another step forward. The dull grate of numb flesh on pavement echoes through the street as my swollen left leg drags onward. It takes almost all of my concentration just to maintain a straight trajectory.

Fuck… what's difficult to do sober is an absolute fiasco when I'm hung over, and body's lack of symmetry is not making things any easier…

_One…two…that's it, Brunswick. Alright, now to side-step the rotten remains of an infected splattered across the pavement. The idiot probably fell from the adjacent building… Shit, can't step in it; it'll take forever to clean off the bottoms of my feet… Christ, my head… uggghh, my stomach…_

Budweiser, huh? So much for being the king of beers; shit's not even good enough to give a virus-ridden wretch like myself a decent night of sleep. Thank God I still have aspirin at home... Thank God it still works on people like me…

_One... two… one... two... that's right, only one block more and I'm h—_

My bald skull collides with the unforgiving black of the street. Growling, I bring my smaller hand to my throbbing head to look back at that godforsaken remains of a tire that had snagged my foot. It was then that I saw it.

A flicker of motion from behind a dented trio of trashcans. The light echo of a frightened squeak hanging limp in the air...

A sigh of annoyance leaves the gnarled remains of my throat, my eyes flickering between a pair of inert infected collapsed against the collapsed hulk of a nearby Volkswagon and the back to the trashcans. Even when hung over as fuck, I can put two and two together.

She's following me.

Shit… She must suspect. She saw me drink myself into a stupor last night. I can't remember, but I know she was watching. If she is what I think she is, then she knows infected lack the intelligence to open a bottle, let alone understand the concept of drinking. She must think she's not alone in this world...

Well, she's wrong.

I don't know what she is, and I don't care either. It's not my problem, and it never will be…

Growling, I pull myself up, my bludgeon-like left arm pushing me upward like some fleshy piston. Once again,I lumber on, ignoring the weak patter of footfalls behind me. Grimacing, I clutch my swollen stomach, hoping the Bud won't want out.

I'm alone. I've survived this long this way, and I have no intention of doing otherwise.

_I'm a loner. Everyone is. People who say otherwise are just lying to themselves, pathetic fucks…_

Suddenly, a spasm rocks my abdomen, forcing me to keel over. Shit… the Bud want's out. One last strangled gag exits my throat before thick stream of foul-smelling amber blasts out of the breach between my jaws. I feel my knees hit the pavement. My vision blurs. I gag once more, suffocating on the fumes of my own puke. The putrid solution spreads across the ground, seeping into my pant legs. Shit, I'm going to have to change my clothes when I get home. Christ, you have no idea how much of a pain it is to dress yourself when your left side is as bulky as mine.

A dry gag resonates behind me, followed by the sickening hiss of acid on concrete. Despite the best interests of my already queasy stomach, I look behind me just in time to see her, standing awkwardly several paces behind me, her stretched fingers pulling her scarf quickly over a reddish blur I presume to be her mouth (or what's left of it, if she's anything like the others I've seen), her electric green eyes wide with disgust at the withering patch of luminescent fluid hissing away at her feet.

_So she's of the acid-spitting variety… I knew it. There's no way in hell I'm letting that thing anywhere near my apartment. She'll put a dozen holes in the floor before the week's end. She might think I'm sane, but I'll show her that it only makes me scarier. She will not interlope on my quiet lifestyle…_

Opening my mouth wide, I scream with all might, my mutated vocal chords loosing a stony roar in her direction. She falls backward with a muffled squeak, her eyes locked on me. Encouraged, I roar again, pounding my thick, grey fist into the pavement, cracking it. She cowers backward, muffled whimpers echoing from behind her scarf. I strike the ground again, yet another roar reverberating in my throat. I may not be able to talk, but I can still shout in defiance.

Funny, I never did so before all this. You know, back when I could still speak… Funny all it took was an infection. Funny that it took a massive increase in physical strength and size for me to scream at a frail girl who is probably as frightened by new body as she is by me. Funny how she cowers before me, still possessing the audacity to stare out at me from behind the cracked lenses of her glasses, her green eyes pleading with me. Funny how I don't give a fuck about it. Funny how I don't give a fuck about anybody. Funny how pathetic I am…

She's crying now, crystal orbs of liquid sorrow blooming on the edges of her wet green eyes. Her sobs come slower, high in pitch than that of the pale ones: somber squeaks smitten with an occasional gurgle. I stop, my eyes staring deep hard into hers. What I can see of her face isn't gnarled like those of the others, several wisps of her feathery brown bangs falling over her eyes. I guess she really is intelligent. There's no other way she could stay this clean. There's no other way she can cry like she does now.

Crying… I've hated it all my life, but now I can't look away. Why can't I look away? What has this retch done to me. Why does my chest hurt when I look at her? Why does what I just did feel so wrong? Why—?

Stop. There's no time to ask such questions. I've got a life to lead, as does she. I am alone. I always will be. No amount of tears or pain will change that. That's the one thing my father taught me. But I won't hurt her; I'm not like him.

My face softens, and I slowly turn away from her and proceed with my journey home. The gurgling sobs fade before stopping completely, replaced by the hesitant patter of footsteps behind me. I groan with frustration, cocking my head behind me. She pauses, her eyes swollen from crying. A muffled whimper escapes the confines of her scarf. I turn back and resume my walk. The pattering resumes. I groan, clutching my head; the Bud isn't letting me off easy... But what about her? I pause, trying to think it over, but another wave of pain washes over me. Damn it, Bud…

Eh, fuck it. I'll regret it later, but I'm too hung over to deal with it now. I pause, pitching my larger arm forward to support my lopsided frame. The pattering stops, and I continue to remain motionless. Minutes pass, and the throbbing in my head lessens as my mind clears itself of all thought. I don't give a fuck about anything right now, save the sound I'm waiting to hear.

The pattering resumes, growing louder with each footstep. Grunting, I resume my lumbering, plodding along at a deliberate pace, waiting for her to catch up…

_One… two… that's it, Brunswick, easy does it…_

**To be continued…**

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_A/N:_ Hey man! Sorry for the late update. Finals season is heating up down good ole' college. I hope you all had a great thanksgiving, and wish you all the best with whatever midyear deadlines or exams you might have XD

Once again, thanks for faving/reviewing/reading my story. That's real good stuff, and for that, I thank you.

Many thanks,

fantasmala


	5. 5-- Baggage and Buckets

**#5— Baggage and Buckets**

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My face hits the futon with a padded thump, the soft surface rising up to meet the craggy contours of my misshapen form. Immediately, the spinning sensation in my head dampens in intensity. I groan contentedly.

I could just lie here for days, without need of sleep or nourishment, my head flitting about amidst a swirling cloud of thoughts. I guess that's why I don't mind being alone. Family… friends… acquaintances… hell, all that's fucked.

I am my own family.

My personality is my friend, and my thoughts are my castle. I am and always will be my greatest companion, and nothing, not even this acid-trip of an apocalypse, can change that.

My mind is a river of sprightly creativity and boundless possibility. I make the rules here: the one place where everything that exists is my own. I am a genius. My greatness need not be proven. And it is in said facts that I find more comfort than I ever could in some person.

Yeah, I know I'm selfish, but who isn't? Who doesn't want the best for themselves? You know, to take care of good 'ole numero uno? Hell, even the altruists do good to receive internal peace or a heavenly afterlife.

My point? There is no such thing as a selfless act.

That's why we're better off alone. Hell, that's why _I'm_ better off alone. I've seen enough interpersonal relationships to understand how it works, and it all boils down to one thing: gain. It's really pretty simple when you think about it. Every relationship boils down to one person using the other to gain something of value. So what does that make everything else besides said object of value?

Baggage.

That's right, baggage. I hate being baggage. For seventeen years, I was baggage to my parents—the byproduct of their passion and buffer to their addictions—and there's no way in hell I'm going participate in an such an exchange again. If I'm not gaining from it, then hell, I'm not doing it.

For example, take the little stalker I allowed into my apartment earlier. Kindness on my part? I thought so at first, but having had a significant amount of thought into the matter as my hangover slowly receded, the premise is now nothing short of laughable (Indeed, I can still laugh. Stony chuckles, broken and inhuman, but laughs nonetheless…). After all, there is no such thing as kindness.

Confused? I'm not surprised. People like you are such dumbasses.

Anyway, allow me to elaborate. When I permitted her to follow me and enter my apartment, I too gained.

What, you ask?

Well, for one thing, I avoided a nasty sob-fest that neither my throbbing head nor my battered body could tolerate. The girl's a bubbling pit of gastric juice and post-apocalyptic angst: a potent combination, one whose precarious balance I would not attempt to disrupt even if I wasn't hung-over. Any fit she throws would be a wet sob or stray sneeze away from serious injury or death for either of us, a consequence I am unwilling to shoulder.

That's the other thing: guilt. Other than my father, I can't stand seeing people in pain. Now let's be clear, just because it hurts me to see agony in others does not mean I'm a nice person. Is it truly a kind thing to avoid causing others pain simply because you yourself wish to avoid suffering?

I think not.

Nothing pissed me off more in high school than when people said "thanks, Brunswick…" or "that was nice of you, Brunswick." There was this one klutz of a girl who would always drop her books in my sophomore English class who had the absolute worst expression of thanks ever.

"Many thanks to you," she'd always say in a ditzy voice, adjusting the thick lenses of her glasses as she did. Christ! I couldn't stand it, but I couldn't make her cry, so I just stood there and took it like my father's punches. God! They knew I wasn't nice! Everyone knows that kindness is an illusion, so why do they put up with the act? Why perpetuate such a painful illusion? It sickens me! I hate phonies!

Anyway, ramblings aside, my tolerance of this pathetic excuse for an acid spewer has amounted to quite a relaxing afternoon. She hasn't messed up my apartment, but rather sits at the chair across from the futon, staring about the room with patient curiosity. She fidgets from time to time, but as long as she continues to puke into the metal bucket I gave her and doesn't harm me or my stuff, I could honestly care less. I know the coming days might screw me over, but I'm too tired to worry about that shit now.

I just want to relax against my futon as the pounding in my head subsides, alone with my thoughts and the light hiss of corroding fabric… wait…

The sound jolts me back to reality as I bolt from my resting place, eyes flying towards the newcomer. My fears are given substance as I catch her mid-vomit, her long neck arched over the bucket as the seething contents of her stomach pour from an ragged opening I can only guess is her mouth. Stray globules of acid drip from the brim, landing on the carpet and dissolving it on contact.

Oh fuck no...

I angrily curse her for her carelessness as I snatch the bucket from her gnarled hands, croaking all manner of insults unintelligibly from the gravelly remains of my throat. I shift my weight to my right side as I turn for the window, hoping to toss the retched contents from the exit and onto the street below. Immediately, my heavier side throws me off balance while my flimsy right hand loses its grip on the bucket, sending it sailing through the air. I shut my eyes tightly, bracing for impact.

There is a clatter, a protracted hiss, and finally a merciful silence.

I open one eye hesitantly, immediately regretting my decision.

Groaning in frustration, I turn to face her, a seething glare spread across my bony features.

She stands awkwardly upright, cradling her right arm uncomfortably. I can see movement coming from beneath the folds of her scarf, her large green eyes boiling with concentration. It's a look I recognize, the agonizing plight of the speechless to speak—the same look I had when I realized I couldn't talk.

A wet squeak is all she can manage as she lowers her head shamefully.

In spite of myself, I feel my face muscles relax. How can I… No, how can I _not_ pity this pathetic wretch standing before me? Even by the tainted vision of the so-called green flu, few people know what I know… and even fewer accept it. I was already well-versed in the world's obstinate causality, but from the way this girl acts, it is obvious she was not. Such is the pain caused by the shattered world of the uninitiated: a pain that almost quenches my anger.

Almost.

Grunting angrily, I turn from her, carefully sidestepping the gaping hole in the floorboards and carpet to get to the window, which I struggle to open. Only then do I face her once again, motioning to my stomach before pointing angrily out the window, my face still numb with anger.

She cocks her head to the side in before nodding in understanding. Then, as if to demonstrate her compliance, she walks past me and arcs her neck over the window pane. I hear a sickening gag reminiscent of a dying cat drying to hack up its final hairball, shuddering as I do. I've had enough for one day.

My lopsided rear sinks into the futon as I sigh with relief. My head cranes back against the cushioned support, eager to escape once again to the comforting solitude of my thoughts.

Too soon, the rustling of paper jolts me back to reality. Another mishap? My eyes reluctantly open to see the girl staring at me expectantly, a crisp notebook folded back in her twisted grasp.

I squint hard to read the writing:

" _Analise DeVadakin – Artist, Eccentric, Orphan, and Victim... Human(?) and Harmless… I am thankful for your shelter and company, however stiff it may be. Many thanks to you!"_

Ooooohhh _fuck_ no…

I look up from the writing, staring hard at the parts of her face not hidden by her scarf.

She readjusts her glasses, and my eyes widen with recognition.

**To be continued…**

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**A/N: My sincerest apologies for the delayed update. Hopefully, this will be the last drought before the story's end. Either way, I thank you all for your favoriting, reviewing, and time as you continue to follow this... uh, interesting... piece of work.**

**Best, **

**Fantasmala**


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